Whooo long time no write. School be crazy. Enjoy!

At this moment, Prussia, wrapped in a gray hoodie under a red robe, was staring agape at the giant HDTV screen, red eyes popped wide, feeling imaginary beads of sweat down his face, as he jammed the down arrow on his Xbox controller like a motherfucker. With each second passing by, the freak rabid wolf inched closer and closer, making Prussia seethe nervously, and he was just about to make it out-

CRASHSHATTERBANGGCRAPWHAT. Stunned into stillness for half a second, Prussia tried to separate his brain from Skyrim for a second, seeking out the calamitous noise from the kitchen. Eh, probably not that important, he shrugged. Ultimately indifferent about the matter, he turned back to his game. He was met with his dead main character lying on the ground in a pool of blood, under the hungry eyes of the wolf about to feast on him.

"Gott-GOTTVERDAMMT!" Prussia cried, clutching his hair into his fists. "I bet that aristocratic dip's baking again! West is way more methodical in his cooking," he surmised sourly, throwing the plastic controller onto the floor. "He fucking asked for it, trying to be artsy in the kitchen. How can he not KNOW that he just ruined my awesome quest for the Dragonstone?! He knows that I haven't stepped out of this Snuggie for weeks!" This was the last time, though-just a few days ago, Austria did a round-about house cleaning, displacing Prussia's long-awaited preordered copy of Battlefield 3, and even before that, he served him pancakes with jam. Jam! What sort of attempt was this to besmirch Prussia's awesome, feeding him some colorful sugary fruit puree instead of fucking TREE SAP?

Actually utilizing his leg muscles for the first time in a fortnight, Prussia stumbled over to his bedroom door like a fat man lumbering out of a swimming pool, then regained normal posture within a couple of meters. With each step, he sought out noises of what the priss might be doing: shrieking like a little girl at some mess he's made? Muttering to himself about how he shouldn't have let Italy go, because he certainly needs a maid now? Sobbing to himself quietly at his failure? Oddly enough-and yet unsurprising to his personality-he didn't form any sort of idea as to what he would do should he get there.

But there was no noise anyway, the kitchen was mostly immaculate except for an open cabinet and a mass of shattered wine glasses on the counter and floor below it. "Specs probably went to get a broom or something," Prussia concluded tepidly. It was a bit of an anticlimactic moment: Prussia, bugged, got out of his isolated sanctuary to beat the snootiness out of Austria, and said snooty aristocrat wasn't even there. The batter for the strawberry cream torte hadn't even made a speckle on the marble countertop opposite the mess, only sitting there in its pretty glass pot, undisturbed.


Prussia, strategically seizing the opportunity to avenge the death of his video-game character, cracked open the nearest cabinet, a spice rack widening the devilish smile on his face. "I don't know what half of these are, but they all smell like they don't go with strawberries," he cackled. Taking an armful of bottles into his hand, he unscrewed all the tops with an uncanny dexterity.

"Paprika? Well, it's red, like the strawberries. Maybe he won't notice it," he guessed, having no apparent culinary knowledge. He dumped half of the canister into the mixture. "'Cumin'? Why haven't I heard of half these things? It sounds like a small-scale dating site for elves." A heavy pinch of the seeds. "Sage... something Specs thinks he is." A sprig of the peppery herb. Then, in the corner of his eye, there was a clear canister of a bright red substance labeled "Indian Chili Powder." "Yes... yes," Prussia droned loudly, taking the trump card of his prank. Into the batter it went, and stirred into an inconspicuous pink batter.

Out of his merry humming was a clacking of footsteps in the distance. And instantaneously Prussia moved to his feet, grateful for the girly, loud heeled boots Austria wore, packing everything into the cabinet and fled the scene of crime. Austria stepped in with a broom, set the oven time, put the cake batter in, and went to sweep the floor.

Prussia was at the TV again, under a blue Snuggie this time, pistol-whipping some innocent bystander in Saint Row's 3, grinning like a child, yet even that was somewhat disturbing. "Yeah, get out of the WAY, bastard!" he muttered to himself as he hijacked a police car. From behind him a door was slammed open, and with his gamer's instinct he snapped in that direction.

"Why-I know you did it," Austria stated sullenly, whip in hand. Some sort of mixture of fear and confusion and even intrigue divided Prussia's focus from Austria's face, the whip, and the fact that Austria has a whip.

"Did wha?" Half of that was spoken honestly: what did he do that was so bad he deserved a literal ass whipping?! Although the game began looping the death music from behind him-amusingly appropriate-Prussia had his attention directed elsewhere (the goddamn whip in Austria's hand, that is).

"Don't play stupid with me! You-you murdered my torte! You slaughtered, no, mutilated! my work of art," Austria burst in passion. "And worse, the Chancellor choked on it! Do you have any clue how many people shunned me while his companion had to perform the Heimlich Manoeuver on him?" Prussia trembled as the aristocrat paced towards him. "Come here! Be a man and take the pain!"

You're one to speak, Prussia couldn't help but think, yet that cheeky remark was suppressed once Austria was within five feet. On adrenaline he emerged from his blanket, sprinted towards the window on the other side of the wall to the side of his punisher, and jump kicked the glass paneling with one foot, leaping out the jagged hole.

Austria, leather flog in hand, was flabbergasted. Should he be mad he just wrecked a window of his house, or that he just got away with tainting his sacred torte, or that he can actually jump kick through a window?

Either way, Prussia, plowing through the palace's plots of Edelweiss, ran barefoot at the speed of a bullet. He threw his arms up in the air. "YES! PRUSSIA'S STILL ALIVE AND KICKIN', BITCHES!"

"Bonjour, Prussia," France greeted, unaccustomed to seeing the proud nation covered in dirt, grass, flowers, and baby-blue airplane pajamas. "Hoho, what happened this time?"

As if a bomb finally set to explode, Prussia leapt forward, grabbing the blond by the shoulders, hysterical. "I was playing games and GOD DAMMIT, Austria made me die again! You know that feeling, don't you?! You don't just go around making people die!" France cleared his throat. "So I screwed up his torte, which isn't that big of a deal, you know. And he just went nuts! He had a fucking WHIP, France! Since when did he actually pull out something that inflicts pain?"

Leather? Whip? France laughed heartily. "Mon ami, this is not a real dilemma. In fact, it's very easy to fix. Entrez!" He ushered the Prussian in, and led him to his elaborately decorated kitchen. The walls were pink-What thought Prussia-and was surprisingly messy, with bags of flour, sticks of butter, and opened bottles of wine sprinkled everywhere. There were no open flames on the stove nor a ticking oven, but the smell of flaky pastry lingered in the air.

"Here," France said, peering into his pantry of baked goods. "With only one bite of this, he'll forgive you. Bon apetit!" He handed Prussia a petite opera cake, pristine with white chocolate garnishes and a dark, almost reddish ganache, stacked with seven layers of chocolate mocha, rich creaminess. Unfortunately for France, Prussia didn't lighten up.

"Come on, it's obvious I didn't make this. The only cake I've ever made was out of play-doh, and West helped me with that," he frowned bitterly. France put a hand over his shoulder, and pondered on the rose-wallpaper around him.

"I've got an idea! You'll make the cake," France uttered in a stream of consciousness, "and I'll 'supervise'. Okay? No way you can mess up!" Prussia slowly nodded. That's right, how can he mess up with the world's best patisserie chef right next to him?

"You... managed to mess up with the world's best patisserie chef next to you," France murmured, mostly to himself, as he covered his face with his palm. He was, for the most part, trying to shield his sight from the awkward, chunky glob of chocolate and flour that Prussia excitedly pulled from the oven. "Bravo! Mon dieu, that is a... gorgeous cake!" France said, twitching.

"I know, right? I almost want to cram my hand into the thing myself but I'm saving it for Austria. He'll be so goddamned proud!" France couldn't tell if he was feigning happiness along with him or if he genuinely considered this... monstrosity an accomplishment, but considering Prussia's narrow variety of talents, he assumed the latter.

"Oui, he will be very pleased. Go give it to him," he laughed nervously. Since Prussia had no guidelines on social conventions, he laughed with his buddy.

"Thanks, man! I'll tell you how it goes," he said walking out the door, his craft in one hand.

The last few hundred miles to Austria began to grow dark, and by the time Prussia had waltzed in Vienna it was pitch black. France ought to teach me faster. It's not like it'll affect the flavor of the cake or anything. Instead he just bitched about flours making chunks in the batter or something. But Specs would like flour chunks, wouldn't he? I mean, that's what matzo ball soup is! He advanced onwards into the castle, and searched for the broken window he made earlier that day. Seeing that it hadn't been covered or patched up, he smugly grinned and climbed through it easily, it being on the first floor (damned if he has to climb flights of stairs to get to his room!).

The hallways, shrouded in darkness, did not befuddle or confuse Prussia-he knew them all too well. In fact, he came prepared with a flashlight, and lit his path before him. So where was he going? To surprise Austria, of course!

What? Now?

Yes, now! Prussia had this insufferable logic of his that dictated his cake was fucking awesome, and the awesome would wane as the cake aged. This was also the logic that fueled him to Austria's room quickly, and he knocked on the door at one in the morning with the fury of France cleaning up his destroyed kitchen.

No answer. No matter, Prussia opened the door nonetheless, looking into the darkness for Austria's moonlit face. With no regard to his sleeping, Prussia crept over to his bedside, peered over Austria's sleeping face, and knelt on the floor.

Something happened in that tiny millisecond. Prussia had never seen Austria's sleeping face, and he realized that the white illumination made him look almost non-human in his beauty, his closed, long-lashed eyes unobstructed by his glasses, his ungelled hair downy and soft on his face. Then that tiny millisecond passed by.

He shook Austria's arm. "Oi, Austria," he said, not bothering to mask his voice with a whisper. He rattled the arm more. "Oi, Austria! I've got a surprise for you!" The sleeping man didn't move. Gee, is he a heavy sleeper. Usually saving this as a last resort, Prussia yanked Austria's ahoge, causing a sudden yelp. "Guess what, sleepyhead! I've got cake for you!"

Austria rubbed his eyes and looked into Prussia's eyes with his blurry vision. "Wh... what?" was all he could mumble, having some inner conflict of this being a dream or reality. He looked at the chocolate cake and scowled at last. "It's been only twelve hours and you already think I've forgiven you?"

"No, Specs, I made this because I want you to forgive me. So can you take a bite and then praise me in adulation?" He shoved a plastic fork into his hand. Austria glared at him incredulously.

"That is not a reason to eat cake," Austria said plainly. Holding the plate up to the window, he noticed the freakish misshapen mound of fluff topped by a gratuitous drizzling of buttercream. That buttercream seemed familiar-France? Now it all makes sense: Prussia ran to France's house, attempted to bake cake, and is now feeding it to him.

"Pleeeease?" Prussia whined, hands clasped together. "I worked so hard on that cake, you know, with France yelling at me all the time and groping me, doesn't that deserve at least a bite?" Austria looked at him a bit longer at his silly-looking face.

"Just one," Austria said sternly. Prussia earnestly sliced a piece with his fork, mostly out of excitement to see his reaction rather than actually pleasing him, and spooned it into his mouth gleefully. Austria slowly chewed, savoring the strange taste. "This is surprisingly tolerable," he said with a glimmering honesty. "The incorporation of orange zest is strange but it lends itself to quite an interesting taste." He held his tongue out for another bite.

"I don't know what you just said but whoo-hoo! Kuchenmeister approves!" Prussia said happily, prancing around in the black darkness. "Am I forgiven?"

"Yes.. you are," Austria said, licking his lips. "Come here." He opened the sheets, pulling the dancing man in, ready to taste more.

Prussia abandoned a day of video games to make Austria some cake... :)